


for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn

by coastcitytourism



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Christmas, Complicated Relationships, Esperanto, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, Long Drabble, M/M, Road Trip, bit of a word vomit if im quite honest, gratuitous usage of google translate, its past, okay time for a couple weird tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21970171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coastcitytourism/pseuds/coastcitytourism
Summary: No way Charles was going to leave Pierre alone on Christmas.
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 19
Kudos: 76





	for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drifter_dreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drifter_dreamer/gifts), [p1erregasly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1erregasly/gifts), [thegreatgasly (londonbird)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/londonbird/gifts), [legolasass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/legolasass/gifts).

> oh boy oh boy oh boy coastcity is back to word vomiting :^)  
This work is...uncharacteristically long for me, and born of some absolutely debilitating writer's block and frustration. Originally my Christmas fic for these two was much fluffier and had way more plot but whatever man I got depressed and trashed it and wrote this bad boy instead.  
Dedicated to drifter_dreamer, thegreatgasly, georgerussell63, and of course Sammy. I probably would've never continued writing in this fandom if not for yall always leaving incredibly sweet and amazing feedback for me, and generally being an encouragement even when I look at the fandom tag and I'm like "damn I am nothing lol" and get extremely unmotivated. Thank y'all so much. I hope this does some justice for yall <3  
as always, this is a work of pure fiction. Please leave it here on AO3.  
title is from "oh holy night" but more specifically the version in "tuning out" by bastille.  
[translations in end notes]

_This is stupid._

Charles is already in too deep, too far from home now to change his mind, no matter how much his head screams about its own stupidity. He's frozen foolishly on Pierre's doorstep in Bologna after driving all the way from Monaco, and before he really gets to register the brief moments between knocking on the front door and regretting his entire existence, a familiar voice shouts "I'm coming, hold on!" from within.

It's ridiculous, his nervousness- after all, this is the same Pierre he's known since they were little kids, the same Pierre who's swapped intimate details of his own life with Charles, who has slept in the same bed as him more times than Charles can even think to count, Pierre who has comforted him in the worst of times and congratulated him in the best. This is Pierre, a close friend, and not a stranger, and yet-

The nervousness fades the second Pierre creaks the door open. He looks like he's just woken up- hair askew in every direction, eyes slightly bleary, and shirt barely just shrugged over his shoulders- and Charles doesn't mention it, but the printed on tag is definitely sitting on Pierre's collar bone, and it's definitely on backwards.

"Charles?" he wonders aloud, looking confused only for a second before irritation washes over his face, "You woke me up."

"It's 11," Charles manages in reply, one hand bracing himself against the doorframe, "It's also Christmas day. You know, the biggest holiday of the year?"

"Yeah? My Christmas gift this year to myself was to be able to sleep in, but I guess that's pointless now," Pierre jokes. A chilly breeze buffets through the door- and the Frenchman shivers once before resolutely tugging Charles inside and closing the front door into the wind. At first, Charles feels a bit out of his depth- he and Pierre haven't been alone together since, well- he gulps. Represses the memory of the incident. Leaves it for another time and place.

Pierre doesn't seem to notice the Monegasque's ill ease, just ambles into the kitchen and digs through the refrigerator.

"Why are you here?" he questions, voice muffled by the hum of the fridge, "Shouldn't you be at home with your family?" He finally seems to find what he's looking for- a carton of juice- and lets out a soft appreciative sound before taking a swig straight out of the carton.

Charles wrinkles up his nose at the unhygenic antics- even if Pierre does live alone, it still seems so wrong to drink directly out of the container- but graces an answer anyway.

"Max said Red Bull stuff was going to keep you from going home to Rouen this year," Charles explains, flopping into one of the wooden chairs in Pierre's dining room, "And we had our Christmas early, so I figured I'd come keep you company. Can I use your Keurig?"

Pierre rolls his eyes, manages to let out an irritated sigh after tipping the last dregs out of the orange juice carton. He slams it onto the kitchen island, leans back against the counter behind him and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

"Okay, wait, first of all, since when have you talked to Max? And second of all, what makes you think I don't want to be alone on Christmas, huh?" he trails off before helpfully adding, "We've also literally had sex, so sure, I don't care if you use my coffeemaker."

Charles winces- obviously Pierre has no shame nowadays in bringing up their night in Monza, even still seens to harbor some sort of bitterness about it all that Charles can't place. They hadn't talked about it- the right place and right time never seemed to come to fruition, but deep down it ate a little piece of Charles up to think about how Pierre probably regretted it, but his soft moans and pretty smile and thundercloud eyes and _I love yous_ that were different than the ones they shared as friends had haunted Charles ever since. 

"I-" Charles starts, but he relents when Pierre gives him an amused smirk. "Right. You're right," he continues, fumbling over his words as he steps into the kitchen, "But anyways. You, alone, Christmas...what else did you ask?" He grabs a coffee pod out of the cupboard above his head, "Oh! Max! Well...technically Max told Daniel, who told me. Do you want me to make you a cup, too?" 

Pierre wrinkles his nose and shakes his head- and Charles isn't particularly surprised, because Pierre's coffee taste had always erred towards the side of "_a splash of coffee with my cup of milk_", and not the other way around.

Charles shrugs as Pierre gives him a rather expectant look, the Keurig whirring away filling the awkward silence between the two of them. Despite his apprehension, Charles is the one to bridge the gap between them and offer his arms openly for a hug. Pierre hesitates for a moment, and then steps into the embrace, his own arms looped around Charles's middle.

"I've known you long enough to know Christmas is your favorite holiday," Charles whispers, "when Daniel said something in passing...I knew I wasn't going to leave you alone. We already did the family thing back home..." he adds, stepping back and resting his hands on Pierre's shoulders, "And besides, we...obviously need to talk."

The coffeemaker lets out an airy sound and the last of Charles's brew drips into the cup. There's something oddly romantic about the whole setup- the smell of espresso wafting through the filtery late morning light reflecting into Pierre's bright apartment. The Frenchman himself gives a tepid smile, the corners of his lips turning up a bit, but not quite enough to meet his eyes.

"Yeah," Pierre finally answers, "we definitely do."

The same impregnable silence fills the room- this time, not as awkward or consuming as a few minutes prior, but not as natural as it once was, either. Charles taps a spoon through his mug, appreciating the cloudlike swirl of creamer in black coffee, and Pierre simply continues to stare, transfixed, at Charles's hands.

"Go get dressed," Charles finally says, taking a long sip of the coffee and letting the warmth burn his throat, "I brought the Lusso."

"Oh, the mom car," Pierre deadpans, and Charles wants to say something snarky about Pierre's Civic but he misses the chance as the Frenchman continues. 

"As if anything is going to be open today," Pierre complains, but he obeys and wanders down the hallway, his bedroom door creaking open and closing just as suddenly, leaving Charles to himself in the kitchen. He nurses coffee from the warm mug between his fingers, wanders aimlessly around Pierre's living room. It's sparsely decorated, save for a bookshelf full of French and English titles alike, a blanket with the Parisian skyline printed on draped halfheartedly over the back of the sofa, and picture frames strewn in seemingly random places around the room- a family picture next to the TV, a printed selfie of him and his brothers on the wall, a picture of Pierre, Charles, and Jules looking much younger on a side table. Charles wanders over, runs his fingers over the photograph- it's dusty, like Pierre hasn't really bothered much with it recently. Most of the frames are, save for one- a simple black frame filled with color, depicting Pierre and Anthoine beaming, a cake with frosting writing that says Félicitations Pierre! Looking at it makes Charles heart burn- especially when he finally makes the connection that it's the newest picture on the wall, free from the dust that's settled nearly everywhere else during Pierre's seasonal absence.

"Okay, ready," the Frenchman says, padding into the room and startling Charles out of his trance. He doesn't seem to notice Charles staring at his pictures, or if he does he doesn't comment, even when Charles turns around and they lock eyes, and the Monegasque sees something sad in that familiar gaze.

"Let's go, then," Charles says quickly, cheeks warming at feeling caught out. The sudden somberness operates as a brutal contrast to their earlier banter, feels like the cold wind that blows through the street and makes Pierre shiver as he turns to lock his front door, bone chilling despite the glittery sun high in the sky.

"Hey," he says as they otherwise silently climb into Charles' gray Ferrari, "nice hatchback. Really classy."

It seems to shatter the tension almost immediately- and sometimes, Charles is taken aback by exactly how good Pierre is at bringing things back into a positive light. He can't keep the smile off his face as he clicks the ignition and the car roars to life, and he can't keep himself from pushing the gas pedal a little bit further into the floor mat and giving the car a couple revs while it's parked.

"You're just jealous because it sounds better than any of your Hondas ever will," Charles quips, and he soaks up the racous bark of Pierre's laughter. "Buckle up, asshole, we're going."

"Please don't kill me on Christmas day," Pierre smiles, but relaxes into the red leather bucket seats anyways. Charles laughs maniacally and finally pulls away from the curb, zooming down the residential road and grinning at Pierre's childish giggling.

"Speaking of Christmas," Charles starts after they settle into a comfortable and mostly legal cruising speed on the highway, "look in the backseat. Maman sent something for you."

Pierre twists around and reaches for a small, immaculately wrapped box behind the driver's seat. "I didn't get her anything," he mumbles as his thumbs gently fold up the wrapping paper, careful not to tear her handiwork. Below the brightly patterned paper is a plain white box, and Pierre is surprised to find a note alongside his gift within.

"Pierrot," he reads aloud when Charles urges him to and turns the radio down, "_Mon autre fils,_" he starts, face burning a bit when he reconsiders the events of the past few months between himself and Charles, the strange cold shouldering, the latter's mother almost certainly aware of the incident and still claiming Pierre so proudly despite it, "_Combien cette année a été difficile pour tu et comment tu avez réussi à traverser tout cela. Bravo. Considérez ce cadeau comme le premier des deux - je suis sûr que Charlot peut tu expliquer si tu êtes confus! Nous tu aimons et tu manquez, et comme toujours, nous sommes aussi fiers de tu que nos propres fils. Prenez soin de tu et n'ayez pas peur de venir nous voir, nous tu aimons tellement! Joyeux Noel._"

Below the note lays a delicately braided bracelet- leather strands dyed familiar shades of red and blue twisted into each other. Small silver beads grace the plait at seemingly random distances, until Charles notices Pierre's fingers running over them in careful consideration.

"It's in Morse code," he says, glancing away from the road, "I'll explain the rest later. Part _deux_," he murmurs as Pierre gently slides the band over his hand, playing absentmindedly with it.

"Alright," Pierre finally says after staring at the cords around his wrist for at least five minutes, "but where are you taking me? Are we going to Maranello?!"

"Not quite," Charles says softly, which is mostly true- their destination is a bit beyond the hallowed town of red. He feels foolish about being so giddy for finally having alone time with Pierre- but truthfully, he hasn't been able to stop thinking about this very moment- just the two of them- since Monza. It had all felt so sudden, so cruel- Pierre coming to congratulate him after his win, both of them in strangely vulnerable places mentally, a decade plus of poorly contained sexual and otherwise intimate tension all leading up to one fleeting moment. Charles would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy almost every aspect of that night, even if the sex was far more vanilla than his usual taste. Even then, it had all seemed too perfect- both of them laughing at the silliness of the situation, soft spoken French in juxtaposition to Charles's own embarrassingly load moans, and Pierre's pretty lips in a perfect 'O' shape as he climaxed. The way they fit together like puzzle pieces after, both laying fucked out in each others' arms. Perfect- until Charles woke up the next morning to Pierre freaking right the fuck out, apologizing like mad and claiming that it was a massive mistake he wouldn't be able to live down. Sure, that had been a bit of a shot to Charles's self esteem, but it bothered him far more that they hadn't recovered any aspect of their friendship since- at least, not until now.

"Speaking of Maranello," Pierre says, flicking through the radio and snapping Charles out of being lost in memory, "Congrats on your contract extension. 2024, that's a long time."

There's something wistful in Pierre's voice when he speaks, and in his body language when he stiffens and stares out the window at the landscape quickly diappearing behind them. Charles knows team talk with Red Bull is an increasingly delicate subject to touch on, but he also knows that if he doesn't pry it out of Pierre now the Frenchman will let it eat him alive forever.

"Yeah," he says halfheartedly, "It feels good. But..." he trails off, hands tightening around the wheel of the Ferrari as he flies past a slow moving Corolla, "what about the Red Bull stuff?"

Pierre laughs, but there's not humor in it. He folds his hands into his lap, looking a bit deflated- and it really bothers Charles how much that damn team has kicked his ex-best friend slash friend with benefits slash _who knows what_ around.

"It all depends on what Max does," Pierre says, confirming what Charles mostly already knew to be true, "If he leaves for Mercedes after next season, I get his seat. Me and Alex. But if he doesn't..." Pierre's voice softens, barely more than a whisper, "No contract extension. They said I'm too old for Toro Rosso. I don't know what I'll do."

Charles wants to apologize, wants to say_ I am so sorry and you deserve better,_ but he can't because he knows those words are loaded with pity that Pierre doesn't want; all he really wants is a contract that doesn't treat him like a piece of meat laid out to bait feral dogs. 

"I know you'll figure it out," is what he settles on instead, one hand trailing off the steering wheel to reach and squeeze one of Pierre's. It doesn't feel unnatural when the touch lingers, Pierre's fingers loosely curled up in his until he has to put both hands back on the wheel again to turn.

"Hope so," the Frenchman says simply, obviously not wanting to dwell on it any longer, and Charles takes the hint. The radio gets turned back up to normal, and silence falls between them once again- amiable this time. 

It stays comfortably quiet until Charles exits off the highway- the gentle roar of the engine, the whispers of the tires against asphalt, and the rhythmic taptap of Pierre's fingers on his phone screen acting as a percussive background to the music on the radio. Charles thinks its top 40- but it could also be Christmas hits or electronic for all he cares. The station is not where his focus lies.

Pierre perks up and clicks his phone off when they turn down the main street of a small town.

"Nothing here is going to be open," he reiterates as he notices the many heavily religious decorations in picturesque front yards, "Charles, where are we going?"

"We're almost there. They'll be open," Charles says, peering left and right until he sees a familiar sign in the distance. Something is written, and it's definitely not Italian, French, or English that Pierre can decipher, but Charles's smile is growing larger with each meter that they get closer, until he's full on beaming as they park the Ferrari, the only other car in the lot an old but well kept Mercedes estate.

Charles unbuckles and hops out of the car with gusto- and before Pierre can do the same, the younger man has already come around to open his door and give him a hand.

"They don't really celebrate Christmas," Charles explains, which sounds counterintuitive to Pierre as he glances at the fairy lights in the window, "But they make the best Christmas food this side of the country." 

They still haven't really talked about _it,_ but Charles grabs Pierre's hand and yanks him into the warm and cozy building. It feels nice, their intertwined fingers- neither protests. Pierre's almost immediately overwhelmed at the signs hanging from every rafter of the roof celebrating what seems like every major winter holiday. He makes out several he can recognize- Christmas, Kwanzaah, Chaunakah, and Festivus being the most obvious- but others elude him. A small menorah sits on the counter, a Christmas tree in the corner. Pierre is very confused, but also incredibly charmed.

"Ahh, Momo!" Charles cries as a large woman appears behind the counter from the kitchen, and she does the same.

"Charles!" she shouts, a thick accent that Pierre can't place tinging her words, "We were thinking about you recently!" she says, mildly stunted English funny sounding in Pierre's ears.

Charles meets her halfway behind the counter, and they hug in a way that seems bone crushing. There's something oddly uncomfortable settling in Pierre's chest as he shuffles his weight from one foot to the next.

"_Ču ĉi tiu estas via koramiko?_" she asks Charles, and wow, Pierre is more confused than ever. Whatever language she speaks sounds oddly familiar- a bit like Spanish, like he should understand it but can't. He doesn't know what she's asked, but Charles turns bright red and shakes his head fervently anyways.

"_Ne, ne_!" he exclaims far too quickly, "_Nur amiko_." Pierre's head is spinning; he doesn't understand a single bit of what they're saying and _honestly what the fuck, Charles, how did I not know you speak another language?_

"Ah," the woman, _Momo apparently_, says, her voice far too understanding. "_Estas komplika, do? Vi du estus belaj._"

Charles miraculously manages to turn redder, and Pierre would laugh if he wasn't so damn confused. "_Jes, mi supozas, ke vi povus diri tion. Ĉiuokaze,_" Charles murmurs, "_ĉi tiu estas mia amiko, Pierre._"

He may not understand the specifics of their conversation, but Pierre at least knows his own name, and isn't impolite- he waves, and Momo gives him a large smile in return. 

"Pierre," she says, "You are French?"

Finally, something he can understand- he manages a smile and a nod.

"Yes, madam. I'm from Rouen."

"_Rouen_," she repeats, looks away for a moment before speaking once more, "_Bienvenue dans notre deuxième maison_." Her French is decidedly more understandable than her English, and Charles gives Pierre an encouraging smile from the corner of his eye.

"_Merci_," he says, comfortable in his native tongue, "_Puis-je vous demander dans quelle langue vous parliez?"_

"Esperanto."

He nods in response, and she gives him a soothing grin. That finally explains why he didn't understand an ounce of it. _Esperanto_. Pierre doesn't think he's actually ever heard anyone speak it before now.

"Anyways," Charles interrupts, "What's on the menu for today, Momo?"

"Don't act like you don't know it's Christmas," she laughs, "For two here? Or to go?"

"Um. To go," the Monegasque says quietly, turns to Pierre, "We're only halfway there," he grins.

"We've been driving for at least three hours!"

"Yeah, so? Not there yet. Not like you were gonna do anything else today anyways," Charles defends, which is at least true- and now that the wall of awkwardness has finally collapsed, Pierre is actually enjoying their time together once more. It feels like old times- back before all the politics of F1, when they were just two best friends taking on the world. He really can't think nostalgically for too long, because when be does it makes something within his chest constrict painfully, takes the breath out of his lungs. _I wish we were still like that,_ he thinks-

Momo doesn't let him- before he escapes into the pathways of his own head, she's out of the kitchen, clutching a picnic basket and a bottle of wine. Pierre tries not too think too hard of _those_ implications- just watches with fascination as Charles takes the items, gives her another big hug and an even bigger tip from his wallet, and presumably thanks her in Esperanto. Pierre wouldn't know.

They get back into the Ferrari soon after, Pierre scrubbing his hands together in a desperate attempt to defeat the chill from outside. Charles gently places the basket into the trunk, wine tucked away safely into a compartment corner in the back, and before Pierre can bother him with a "where are we going?", they're back on the highway again.

"Charles," he whines, "It's going to be dark by the time we get to wherever you're taking me."

"Yeah," Charles grins, "I know. That's the point. Not too far from here, actually. Stop being so impatient."

Pierre groans, sinks back further into the seat and lets Charles laugh at him. They're finally acting themselves again, comfortable in each other's companionable presence. 

Charles flicks the blinker to exit off the highway once more right as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, the clicking sound filling the cabin as he pauses the music to squint at road signs. A dirt road lies ahead, nearly daring Charles to try out the laudable Ferrari all wheel drive system. Pierre barely has time to grab the panic handle before Charles is laughing like a madman and spinning the tires on loose gravel, foot buried deep in the gas pedal.

"Jesus, I thought I said to not kill me!" Pierre jokes, but he's laughing too. The ass end of the Ferrari wiggles a bit in the slippery rocks and then catches grip, launching them further down the path.

"All wheel drive," Charles says both dumbly and appreciatively, "Nothing quite like it." He taps his hand against the wheel as they finally begin to ease down into manageable speed, "Rally Ferrari."

"Mattia would be so pissed if you wrapped this around a tree, rally boy. Who's gonna argue with Seb every weekend if you hurt yourself and can't drive?"

"Oh, Pierre," Charles laughs, "Very bold of you to assume I'd wrap the driver's side around the tree and not yours. Be grateful that Helmut Marko creeps me out too much to risk hurting one of his precious drivers."

The end of the road comes quickly- a trailhead surrounded by wilderness and bathed in golden dusk light. It's beautiful, virtually untouched, and looks absolutely surreal with Charles's decidedly not 4x4 Ferrari parked alongside it.

"It's a short walk," Charles reassures when Pierre looks at him with crossed arms and raised eyebrows, "Less than half a kilometer. But it's worth it, I promise," he says, grabbing the basket and bottle out of the trunk and letting the hatch close under it's own power.

"Better be, I definitely didn't dress for hiking. Lead on, then," Pierre sighs, gives a weak and unsure smile that Charles thinks is exceedingly endearing, and motions the Monegasque in front of him.

In the end, Charles is right- the walk is barely even that, but leads to a large clearing on the overlook of a sheer bluff.

Charles drops his arms load in a nice, flat spot and grabs Pierre by the elbow to drag him closer to the edge, which _hey now Charles that seems dangerous_ but-

Pierre is immediately taken aback. From the edge of the overlook, it seems the horizon goes on forever- and right in the middle stands Maranello in the distance, lit up red tonight not for Ferrari, but with Christmas lights. It's just discernible, the myriad of twinkles from the city, and decidedly beautiful. 

"_Wow_," Pierre breathes, barely acknowledges that Charles has looped a reassuring arm around his waist, "It's beautiful. Who showed you this place?"

"Jules, back when he was in talks with Ferrari," Charles said, barely masking the sadness in his voice, but he's glad he's able to share the beauty with someone else who he loves, who understands. Pierre looks awestruck, his eyes shining with the reflection of the pink sunset. "Listen, Pierre..." Charles starts, stepping away from the Frenchman, "I know we said we needed to talk..."

"Yeah?"

"Well, I-" Charles shakes his head, struggles for the words. "Monza. I know it was-"

"Unexpected?" 

"Yeah," Charles breathes, "Yeah, that, but I really didn't mind it, and, um, I really missed you after, and I know you don't feel the same wa-"

"Charles," Pierre says firmly but softly, shoving his hands in his pockets, "It's fine. I just want us to be normal again. I missed you too."

It's equally relieving and disappointing to hear that- and Charles wants to just sit back and take it, except it's Christmas and he's standing in the most precious location he knows, and right now he just can't take the heartache of laying down and bearing it. _Not like this._

"That's not what I meant," Charles says, voice lacking its usual confidence, and Pierre's gaze snaps up, "Listen, I don't know how to get this across-" he takes a step forward, daring to enter Pierre's personal space, cups a stubbly cheek with one hand, "But, um. Can I just kiss you? Will that make my point?"

Charles doesn't get a verbal response- but he does get Pierre's lips against his own, gentle and slightly chapped. It's soft, sweet, innocent- and Charles can't help the laugh that escapes his throat, that threatens to break them apart and finally does when he loses the ability to breathe normally.

"What's so funny?" Pierre mumbles, sounds slightly insecure until Charles coughs some air back into his lungs and smiles ridiculously wide.

"I can't believe that just happened," he giggles, "I mean, we've known each other for what, more than ten years? Man," he says, sighs and takes both of Pierre's hands in his own, "I know what happened in Monza wasn't great, and I'm sorry, I hope you're feeling better, but um..." he looks at Pierre hopefully, "I was wondering if we could try again, from the beginning? For real this time?"

Pierre's face finally softens, and he can't help but laugh either. "This _is_ silly," he says, and then, "I can't think of anything I want more, actually. I missed you..." he corrects himself, "I missed us, so much." It's a quiet confession, maybe not the most wordy, but Pierre thinks it just about summarizes every thing he's capable of feeling and vocalizing at present.

"Well then," Charles says, intertwining their fingers, "Merry Christmas, Pierre. Hope you like your gift from me. It's me."

They stand at the overlook, loosely embracing one another and watching the twinkles and flashes of Maranello below, which remains well trafficked despite the holiday.

"I was actually hoping for my very own Ferrari," Pierre finally says, feigning hurt until Charles deflates slightly, "Kidding. But maybe we should eat now?"

"Oh! Wait-" Charles exclaims, breaking their grip and running back to the picnic basket. He pulls out a matching white box, cracks it open to reveal another braided bracelet, which he slips over his own wrist.

"Part _deux_," he murmurs when he gets back to Pierre, holding his arm out so they can compare. "Maman thought she should get us matching ones," he adds quietly.

"What do they mean? I can't read morse code," Pierre says lamely, and Charles beams.

"You can't read Esperanto either. Good thing you have me now," he wraps an arm around Pierre's neck, drags him closer, "Mine says '_nun_', which means now."

"And mine?" Pierre wonders aloud.

"'_Eterne_'. Forever."

It's silly and sappy and makes something in Pierre feel warm and fuzzy, and he can't help himself from pulling Charles in and kissing him hard.

"Merry Christmas, Charlot," Pierre mumbles into Charles's smile, and he thinks he's actually grateful he couldn't make it to Rouen this year.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> Mon autre fils. Combien cette année a été difficile pour tu et comment tu avez réussi à traverser tout cela. Bravo. Considérez ce cadeau comme le premier des deux - je suis sûr que Charlot peut tu expliquer si tu êtes confus! Nous tu aimons et tu manquez, et comme toujours, nous sommes aussi fiers de tu que nos propres fils. Prenez soin de tu et n'ayez pas peur de venir nous voir, nous tu aimons tellement! Joyeux Noel. [French] : My other son. How difficult this year was for you and how you managed to get through it all. Well done. Consider this gift as the first of two - I'm sure Charlot can explain to you if you're confused! We love you and miss you, and as always, we are as proud of you as our own sons. Take care of yourself and don't be afraid to come and see us, we love you so much! Merry Christmas.
> 
> Ču ĉi tiu estas via koramiko? [Esperanto] : Is this your boyfriend?
> 
> Ne, ne! Nur amiko. [Esperanto] : No, no! Just a friend.
> 
> Estas komplika, do? Vi du estus belaj. [Esperanto] : It's complicated, then? You two would be beautiful.
> 
> Jes, mi supozas, ke vi povus diri tion. Ĉiuokaze, ĉi tiu estas mia amiko, Pierre. [Esperanto] : Yeah, I guess you could say that. Anyway, this is my friend Pierre.
> 
> Bienvenue dans notre deuxième maison. [French] : Welcome to our second home.
> 
> Merci. Puis-je vous demander dans quelle langue vous parliez? [French] : Thank you. May I ask what language you just spoke?
> 
> That should be it for translations, excuse me if they are Bad. I am reliant on Google Translate and deepL bc I only speak and write English fluently, very basic German and Spanish and some amount of Duolingo Esperanto and French lmao. 
> 
> thank you for reading my incomprehensible word vomit I know christmas is over but whatever, merry christmas and happy holidays you guy, happy new year if i'm not spamming the ship tag before then again <3


End file.
